


Imitation

by draculard



Category: American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Depression, F/M, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Violet's never been in love before.
Relationships: Violet Harmon/Tate Langdon
Kudos: 12





	Imitation

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

She's never been in love with anyone else before; she's never even had a crush, really, but like a scientist examines specimens in a lab, she's always kept an eye on her peers, assessing them clinically, trying to figure out which ones she could _force_ herself to like if she really needed to.

She's always been drawn to the dark boys; that doesn't mean she's ever really liked them. Everywhere she goes, there are boys who seem like her on the surface — who sit alone at lunch, who wear dark clothing and never smile at other people, who cut their arms with razor blades.

So why does she fall for Tate when she's never liked any of them? Over the months, a few key pieces fall into place.

The other boys think their appearances don't match their interior; they try to change themselves to match how they feel, as if everyone around them is the default and their dark thoughts make them different somehow. They dye their hair black; the rich ones go full goth, using Mom and Dad's paycheck to buy the coolest clothes from online catalogs. The poor ones wear the same black hoodie from Walmart or Salvation Army every day, cutting holes in the sleeves to slip their thumbs through, adding safety pins or spikes whenever they can shoplift a pack.

Tate doesn't change his appearance. Deep down, all the bubbly people in the world are just like him, and he knows that — knows it with a confidence Violet can't match — so he changes nothing. He lets his hair stay blond. He wears clothes that look like hand-me-downs from a dead dad, preppy sweaters and old worn cords from The Gap. 

So that's one tiny, insignificant point for Tate.

The other boys say they cut themselves to feel happy; some say they do it to feel numb. Maybe they really do, but Violet never fully believes them. _She_ doesn't feel happy or numb when she cuts herself; she feels pain, and she keeps doing it anyway. Tate, when she first meets him, gives her the same spiel about numbness and endorphins and bleeding away the stress of a long, bad day. But later, when they're lying in bed fully clothed with her arms around his waist and his lips against her neck, he tells her the truth.

He _likes_ the pain. He _wants_ the pain. He treasures it the same way he treasures up true joy, like the high of finding a song that really speaks to your soul, or the out-of-body experience that comes from staying up until dawn, hearing the birds sing discordant notes all around you, watching the sun rise and the city wake.

There are other differences, too.

The other boys read Nietzsche and discuss serial killers — not _why_ they kill, but how cool they are for doing it. Tate reads the nature poetry of Basho, and he does it to dispel the song of violence in his head, not to reinforce it. He reads about Byron and birds in an effort to lull the darker sections of his mind to sleep.

And because he likes it.

Because Tate appreciates beauty just as much as he appreciates the dark.

The other boys drown out their thoughts with heavy music — goth and metal in a million subgenres that Violet can't remember and can't tell apart. When Tate listens to music — when he sits on the floor of Violet's bedroom with her, their knees just barely touching, and looks through her CDs — he looks for sad music, slow music, beautiful music. Lyrics that reflect his state of being. Music that makes him feel.

The other boys look up to school shooters; dream of becoming one someday; never will. They talk about killing themselves, talk about suicide-by-cop. Talk about it; leave it for another day. But Tate—

Sometimes she looks at Tate and wonders if he even remembers what he's done, or if he's blocked it out so thoroughly that the ghosts of his victims look like strangers to him.

Sometimes, as she lies next to Tate like she's lying next to him now, she wonders if she'll ever meet a living boy who imitates him as well as his ghost imitates himself.


End file.
